The Road More Travelled
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Joyce makes a decision. Years later, others are faced with decisions of their own.
1. Joyce: The Road More Travelled

**Title**: The Road More Travelled

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Category**: B:tVS, CSI

**Summary**: Joyce makes a decision. 300 words.

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Feedback**: It's the coin of the realm.

**Notes**: According to various trivia guides, Joyce Summers was born in 1958 and met Hank at college. Gil Grissom was born in 1956, attended UCLA, and became a coroner in LA County at the age of 22. The more I looked into this, the more plausible it sounded; I couldn't not write it, cliché or no.

* * *

Joyce Craig slid carefully out from between the bedsheets, trying not to disturb the other sleeper. Silently, she gathered up her clothes and began to dress, grimacing at the bent clasp on her bra and the tattered condition of her underwear. They were a pair Hank had bought for her, and he was going to be suspicious when they turned up missing.

She had to stop doing this. Gil had been a good friend since he'd tutored her in biology back when she'd been a sophomore and he a senior, and he was even better in bed, but there was no future with him. He was serious and reserved in company, he was fascinated with bugs, his idea of going out for the evening was taking her to ride roller coasters, and he worked with dead bodies every day. Not to mention, he was not interested in settling down and having children.

Maybe that was why she'd never broken it off with Hank, despite her attraction to Gil and her doubts about the engagement. Hank did want kids; he wanted to be the post-card-perfect businessman, with the wife, the picket fence, the 2.5 kids, and the skyrocketing salary. He would be a good provider, she was sure, and he seemed to genuinely love her. Gil, on the other hand...

Well, it was far too late for what-ifs now. She would be showing in a few months, regardless; best to cut off contact now, before his sharp mind picked up one too many clues and jumped to a plausible conclusion. She didn't want him feeling responsible, or guilty, when the other possible father was so eager to tie the knot anyway; she was sure they'd all be much happier this way.

So why did it hurt so much to leave him?

(fin)


	2. Buffy: Time to Speak

**Title**: Time To Speak 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Summary**: B:tVS, CSI. _Buffy knew long before her dad divorced her mom that Hank Summers might be the guy who had raised her, but he wasn't her father by blood_. 500 words.

**Spoilers**: B:tVS post-"Chosen"; any season of CSI

**Notes**: Challenge entry. Also for beatriceotter for the timestamp meme; a follow-up to "The Road More Travelled".

* * *

"_To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven[... a time to keep silence, and a time to speak_"  
--Ecclesiastes 3:1,7b (KJV)

* * *

Buffy knew long before her dad divorced her mom that Hank Summers might be the guy who had raised her, but he wasn't her father by blood.

Still, she'd never been tempted to go look her actual birth father up. According to her Mom, she'd been cheating on Hank with her biology tutor, a stuffy, introverted geek even less socialized than Willow or Giles at their worst. He'd played with bugs, worked on dead bodies, and had absolutely no interest in settling down, getting married, and having kids. Showing up out of the blue to tell him a no-strings roll in the sheets back in college had resulted in a daughter probably wouldn't inspire much of a paternal response; it would just disrupt both of their lives to no purpose. Especially given all the secrets she was carrying.

The unexpected arrival of Dawn, followed by her mother's death, had almost been enough to make her change her mind and pick up the phone, but things had spiraled out of control very quickly after that. Not until after Willow's psychotic episode did her life calm down enough to let her seriously consider the notion.

Of course, by then all she'd really have needed from him was money, and she was determined never to go there. The money from Giles had been a godsend, but one she'd never have asked for; she was _not_ going to go begging for funds from a complete stranger just because she shared half her DNA with him.

Buffy decided after that to put him out of her mind entirely. She didn't even think of him consciously again until the day, years later, when she turned on the news and found herself confronted with his name, attached to the image of a guy in Las Vegas CSI gear outside a building fenced off with police tape. She froze the picture with her TiVo and stared at it for several minutes, taking in the grim, determined expression on his face, the careworn lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the supportive hand one of his co-workers had settled on his arm.

_That_ was her dad. Probably Dawn's too, biologically at least. He must have left the coroner job Joyce remembered a long time ago. He wasn't some vaguely creepy, bug-obsessed shadow in her mind anymore; he was a living, breathing person, one who worked to make the world safer for ordinary citizens, just like she did.

She studied the image awhile longer, checking for a ring on his left hand and memorizing the lines of his face, before she unfroze the image and let it run forward again. Her dad was a crime scene investigator, a cop, one of the people who dealt with the _other_ kind of evil that went bump in the night. He was a person worth knowing, and he might understand her life better than she'd ever expected he would.

Maybe it was finally time to give Gil Grissom a call.

--


	3. Grissom: Unexpected Evidence

**Title**: Unexpected Evidence

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: PG/K+

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _Whether or not he was ready for it, Gil had a responsibility to this girl, and he was never one to shirk a responsibility_. 1200 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-series for Buffy; vaguely season six-ish for CSI

**Notes**: For beatrice_otter, who requested more of my "Time to Speak" 'verse. Also for the 2011 twistedshorts ficathon.

* * *

_Summers_. Gil furrowed his brow as he stared at the name written above the return address on the envelope he held, trying to remember where he knew it from. He didn't think the connection was recent; he was fairly sure it hadn't come up in any of the crime lab's current cases. Something personal, perhaps? But then why would it have been sent to the office?

He weighed the envelope again in his hand: less than half an ounce, barely enough for a couple of sheets of paper. It was a plain, standard sized number ten, the directions hand-written in black ball point ink; whoever had sent it to him had directed it simply to Gil Grissom, with no reference to title or position. It couldn't be a cop or scientist he'd worked with, at least not from Vegas; nor an ex-girlfriend; nor a connection of his family... perhaps it was someone he'd attended school with?

He shook his head, then turned the envelope around and reached for a letter opener. He'd find out soon enough. It wasn't a properly sized envelope for a wedding invitation, an anniversary party, or any of the other random requests he occasionally received from people he'd known at UCLA or the University of Chicago, but the name still dimly resonated with old textbook-bound memories, and he tugged the paper inside free with quick, impatient motions.

Something _else_ fell out of the envelope as he did so, and Gil froze- but it wasn't the soft fall of white powder he had briefly feared. It was something altogether less deadly, except perhaps to his own peace of mind. A tiny plastic baggie with a zipper closure landed in front of him on the desk, a long curl of light-colored hair inside, a few roots clearly visible. The kind of thing you'd send a crime lab expert to discover or establish an identity- especially if there was reason for that identity to be a surprise.

College. DNA. Dark blonde or light brown hair. _Summers._

The penny finally dropped, and Gil winced as he unfolded the single sheet of the letter. Not _his_ friend, but the new last name of a woman whose company he'd once thoroughly enjoyed. Not enough to marry her, or to be angry when she left him to go back to her fiancé... and given the circumstances, perhaps the letter should have been a little less of a surprise. Joyce hadn't sent him a birth announcement, but he'd seen the notice in the alumni newsletter, and entertained a moment of speculation. Eventually, he'd decided she'd had no reason to lie to him about something so serious, even by omission, and put the whole subject out of his mind- but it looked as though he'd been wrong.

He glanced at the hair again, then back to the letter, and drew a deep breath as he began to read.

_"Hi. You don't know me, but my name is Buffy Summers._

_"I'm a psychology student at Cleveland State University, but I grew up in L.A. That's where my mother went to school. She met Hank Summers at UCLA; and according to what she told me, that's where she met you, too. You would have known her as Joyce Craig. She said you were a T.A. for her biology prof._

_"She also said you were smart, so you've probably figured out by now why I've sent this letter. I really hope so, because I never wanted to so much as think about my mother's love life, much less talk about it with someone I've never met. I know you work with the cops, so I thought you might want proof before we actually, you know, talk. My friend Willow said sending some hair would be the easiest way to do that._

_"I just want you to know, I don't have any expectations. I'm already an adult, and I'm not hurting for cash or anything. It's just, I know how short life can be. When I saw you on the news with that big murder case a couple of months ago, it made me wonder. You might not want anything to do with me, but I think I'd kind of regret not giving you the opportunity, at least._

_"You can write me back at the address below, if you're interested._

_"Hopefully,  
"Buffy (and yes, that really is my full first name)."_

A small wallet-sized snapshot had been tucked into the folds of the page, showing an older version of the gorgeous young art student, two years his junior, whom he'd tutored through general biology. There were a few threads of grey in her dark blonde curls, but she'd aged well, still beautiful despite the lines of laughter and stress at the corners of eyes and mouth. In front of her, wrapped in her mother's arms, stood a girl with long blonde hair and laughter in her eyes- a girl that, yes, could plausibly be a mix of his genetics and hers.

He could see Joyce in the line of her chin and her eyebrows; his cheekbones, and probably his hair color, judging by the dark roots at the base of her dye job; and definitely his mother's height- she was several inches shorter than either he or Joyce. _Buffy_. His daughter, if what she said was true.

Did he want it to be true? He swallowed, considering the question, as he picked up the baggie with the strands of hair. He'd never wanted children; never even wanted to settle down, really, before Sara had come into his life. It just hadn't seemed important to his life goals- and whenever he'd thought, vaguely, about having kids, the likelihood of passing on the genetic disorder responsible for his mother's deafness and his own recent episode of hearing loss had deterred him. He'd never thought about the possibility that he might have one presented to him already raised.

He glanced down at the photo again, then folded it back into the letter. Whether or not he was ready for it, he had a responsibility to this girl, and he was never one to shirk a responsibility. Even if only to pass on a warning about the risk of otosclerosis. She said she didn't have any expectations, but by her phrasing, she'd lost her mother relatively recently- she was likely looking for some type of connection, or at least closure, and he could at least give her that much.

More than that... he couldn't say. It depended on whether their personalities were at all compatible; and there was Sara to consider. He'd just started to get used to having to consider another person's preferences in his personal life- he didn't know _what_ she'd make of him acquiring a grown daughter.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then sighed and paged Greg. First things first: the evidence. He was well aware that the former lab rat still did a little recreational DNA work- he had a quirk about testing his dates. Greg could run the hairs against one of Gil's off the books, and if it proved the girl's story...

Well, Gil would write her back. And then they'd take it from there.

-x-


	4. Sara: You Have a What?

**Title**: You Have A What?

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: PG/K+

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the world is not.

**Summary**: _He was definitely Grissom for the conversation at hand, not Gil, no matter how apologetically he was staring at her over the spread pages of a DNA analysis report._ 1000 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-series for Buffy; vaguely season six-ish for CSI

**Notes**: For Beatrice_Otter, who requested more of this 'verse. One more conversation before the actual meeting.

* * *

"You have. A what," Sara said flatly, staring across the cluttered desk at Grissom. He was definitely Grissom for the conversation at hand, not Gil, no matter how apologetically he was staring at her over the spread pages of a DNA analysis report.

"A daughter," he replied, simply. "I know it comes as a surprise. It did to me, too."

"A _surprise_?" she blurted, trying in vain to imagine her intensely private, deeply feeling, meticulous lover as the knock 'em up and leave 'em type. Casual relationships, maybe. Avoidance of responsibility, though? It seemed even less likely than the first worry that had flashed through her mind: that the XX on that report was another secret he'd been keeping for who knew how long. "Winning the lottery is a surprise. Kids take nine months to arrive; it's kind of difficult not to realize they're coming."

The lines around his eyes drew in a little in a pained wince. "Not when you're twenty-two and the mother announces that it's her fiancé's baby, not yours," he said.

"When you're...?" Sara blinked as the age reference sank in. "Wow. Okay. So she's... not an infant, then."

_That_ was a little easier to wrap her mind around. Everyone went a little wild in college, in her experience; she certainly had no room to throw stones. Their romantic relationship was still fairly new, but she'd been in love with him for _years_, and the idea of him impregnating another woman after she'd moved to Vegas for him had stung. Even if she was kind of ambivalent about the idea of having children herself, and even though she hadn't had proprietary rights for most of that time- Sara wasn't a big enough person to accept that without a qualm. She was a little relieved that she wouldn't have to.

"Ah... no." The corner of Grissom's mouth twitched a little. "Perhaps I should have led with that. She's a college student, at Cleveland State. Apparently she's known who I am for some time, but it didn't occur to her until she saw me on the news that I might want to know about _her_."

"So she just sends you a lock of her hair?" Sara scrunched up her nose. "That seems a little..."

She wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. Presumptuous? Mistrustful? Cowardly? All of the above? A moot point regardless, since he _had_ run the test. But still.

The faint signs of amusement in his expression grew more pronounced at her unfinished objection. "As I said. Apparently, her mother told her who I am."

Sara's face contorted as she tried not to laugh; okay, he'd got her with that one. "So after all this time, she lets you know. What now? I mean, does she want anything? Are you going to meet her? Play penpals? What?"

"I... don't know," he shrugged. "In her letter- I should have brought it; I'll have to show you later- she left the degree of contact up to me. I do feel I should share my medical history, but beyond that... well. I never planned on children. I'm not sure what to feel, yet. And I know you haven't had... the best experiences."

No; she hadn't. Her own childhood was still too raw a subject for Sara to discuss casually, but she was touched that he was considering her comfort in the situation. As long as it had taken them to finally get their acts together, it still took her by surprise how much room he had made for her in his life. That came with its own level of responsibility, though. What would be the right thing to say, here?

"I won't lie; I'm a little uncomfortable with the idea," she said, smiling wryly. "She's got to be only, what. Nine years younger than I am?" All kinds of evil trophy stepmother clichés started with that kind of age spread. "She is an adult, though; so it's not like you have to make a decision on whether or not to take her in, or anything. You can meet her once, and never see her again if it doesn't go well."

Grissom furrowed his brow at that, weaving his fingers together atop his desk. "Would it be too much to ask you to be there?"

Sara took a breath, and sat back a little in her chair, resisting the temptation to lean forward and lay her hand atop his. "I... would like to say yes. But given everything..." She gestured vaguely toward the barely-cracked door. They hadn't yet told anyone else that they were together, as he was still her supervisor. Meeting his daughter as a couple would be risky on more than just a personal level.

"Of course. You're right." He sighed, more hesitant than she was used to from him, but still resolved. "I'll contact her, then, and set something up. Somewhere neutral."

"Keep me posted," she smiled crookedly at him. "Hey, what's her name, by the way? You didn't say."

"Didn't I?" He quirked an amused smile: mostly in the eyes, but she'd learned how to read them over the years. "Buffy Summers. Her mother was... an art student."

Sara choked back a laugh, then waved again, vaguely. "I see. Well. I'd probably better..."

He nodded, tucking the report away in a drawer. "Right. Catherine could probably use another pair of hands with her 419. If I don't see you...?"

She nodded as she got up; they'd meet for breakfast as usual. "Sure. And, hey. Gil?"

"Hmmm?" He blinked a little distractedly at her, mind already halfway back into work mode.

"Thanks for not waiting to tell me," she said quietly, one hand on the doorjamb.

His smile softened, warming her clear through. "We've had more than our share of misunderstandings."

And they'd have more, undoubtedly. But he was working on it, now; and she could do no less. She grinned back at him, then slipped out of his office and went to pick up her kit.

-x-


	5. Amazingly Convenient Timing

**Title**: Amazingly Convenient Timing

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: PG-13/T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the world is not.

**Summary**: _This was Vegas, surely Buffy's luck would be at least a little less hateful than usual. "I mean, what are the odds? There's other people that work for the crime lab, right?"_ 3000 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-series for Buffy; vaguely season six-ish for CSI

**Notes**: For Beatrice_Otter, again again. So, meeting? I know, I know; I had to break the ice first before I could get to the "real" conversation - which is still coming.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Gil," Jim greeted him as he approached the scene, accessorized with CSI vest and evidence kit. "I know you wanted to take a couple of days off for your mysterious out of town visitor, but..."

"Crime never sleeps. Particularly not in this town," Gil shrugged, evading Jim's half-implied question.

He'd left a message on Buffy Summers' cell phone to let her know he wouldn't be meeting her flight after all; but hopefully they'd still be able to meet the next day. And _after_ he knew how the meeting was going to go would be time enough to satisfy his old friend's curiosity. He'd prefer to save the congratulations or gruff sympathies until he was certain which reaction the situation called for.

"So what do we have?" he asked.

"Missing person; suspected foul play," Jim replied darkly, walking beside him as they approached the suburban home. "Teenage girl. The parents say their daughter's been hanging out with a lot of _unsavory characters_ lately; they think it might be gang related. They overheard her talking about a 'patrol' and someone called 'the Slayer' coming to town when she was on the phone after dinner last night, but they thought it had something to do with one of her video games, or maybe a music group- until they discovered no one had seen or heard from her since. The bedroom window was unlocked, and there's a bloody handprint on the sill."

He gestured at the window in question; it was a second story window, next to a tree with sturdy branches; a handy route for clandestine exit and reentry. There was nothing else particularly unusual about the place that Gil could see at first glance; it seemed like an average, well-kept middle class residence, and the neighborhood was neither downscale, nor upscale enough that either gang activity or kidnapping for ransom was likely to be a routine hazard. Statistically, it was more probable that the girl had left under her own power, though the blood evidence did raise a question mark.

"What else?" he said, narrowing his eyes at his friend. "If you're already sure this is more than a rebellious kid who scraped her hand sneaking out after curfew, there has to be more to it."

Jim nodded, ushering him in through the open door of the house. Gil could see Sara down the hall, bagging the contents of a laundry basket as he entered; she gave him a sympathetic half-smile as she spotted him, sorting flimsy shirts and narrow jeans into bags separate from the rest of the items.

"There is," Jim continued. "Several things, none of which add up. Mom went digging, checking to make sure her daughter's things were all still there- they had a big fight last week about her wanting to switch to some private school out in Cleveland that the parents didn't approve of, and they were worried she might have taken off without notice. But as far as she could tell, nothing's missing- and there were a few _extras_ in the wardrobe I think you might want to take a look at."

"Extras?" Gil replied dryly, raising his eyebrows at him.

Jim made a face. "Like maybe she'd been watching a little too much genre TV," he said, preceding Gil into the room in question and gesturing toward the closet door.

Gil had already slipped on a pair of gloves; he checked the floor to make sure it had been cleared and that he wasn't about to step on any evidence, then picked his way over to the closet and crouched down for a look. A heavy trunk provided a backdrop for a shallow rack of shoes; the trunk's lid was open, and inside he could see-

"Is that a _morningstar_?" Gil snorted, surprised. "You have pictures of this already?"

"Be my guest," Jim nodded. "And- yeah, as far as I remember my medieval weaponry."

"Not your usual teenage fashion accessory," Gil observed, carefully edging his fingers under the spiked weapon's handle to lift it aside. It rested on a tangle of other weapons- mostly blades, but there were a few more of the crushing variety, with and without sharp projections, as well. "Nor any of these. This is an arsenal- and they're not plastic reproductions, either, by the weight. Has anyone asked her parents whether she belonged to the SCA, or perhaps ARMA?" Off Jim's questioning look, he explained further, "The Society for Creative Anachronism, or the Association for Renaissance Martial Arts."

"Ah. One of those live action, historical role play societies," Jim frowned. "Not yet. Could be she met those 'unsavory characters' her mother talked about through one of those groups?"

"Could be," Gil noted. "Though it's not immediately relevant, unless one of these was a murder weapon, and I assume none are or you'd already have bagged and tagged them."

"A lot of fluid residue showed up under the light- but all the swab tests came up negative for blood. We'll have to do further tests to determine exactly what's on them." Jim screwed his face up in distaste just at the implications. "Could be some kind of S&M hobby, perhaps."

"Possible," Gil admitted, lowering his voice, "though I don't see any other paraphernalia to suggest the use of these implements in any sort of sexual play, safe or otherwise. The lab will tell us more. You said several things, of which this is one- what else have you found?"

Jim smirked as Gil spoke- probably thinking of his brief association with Lady Heather. Everyone seemed to, when such topics came up, though Gil had hardly been a complete innocent before he'd met her. But then, he was usually very good at keeping his private and public lives compartmentalized; his interactions with the dominatrix had provided a rare opportunity for his coworkers to gossip about him. He wondered what they'd make of his daughter's existence, if she ever came by the lab, and smiled wryly back at the thought. Proven human at last, perhaps.

"You saw Sara bagging the clothes? We ran a light over them, too, checking for residue," Jim replied.

"And found some, I assume," Gil said, pushing himself back to his feet.

"Not just _some_," Jim said. "There's not a single piece of clothing in there that belongs to the girl, except for the stuff so new it still has creases from the store, that doesn't show at least some evidence of mending and stains. If she's in one of those clubs, she must fight in her street clothes."

And there was another detail that didn't fit. Gil frowned. "Curiouser and curiouser. What did her parents say about that?"

"They had _no_ idea," Jim snorted, throwing up his hands.

"But that's impossible. If she came home with wounds that frequently, or required that much restorative care for her clothes-"

"She must have been taking care of it all on her own, or with her friends," Jim nodded. "Which all adds up to an awful lot of smoke."

And where there was smoke, there was usually fire. Gil sighed. "We need to track down those friends."

"We might have a break, there; the middle sibling he said he took some pictures on his digital camera, the last time they came to pick her up during the day."

"Get them to Archie," Gil said, then opened his kit and dove further into the work.

* * *

Buffy debarked her plane in Vegas to find an apology on her cell phone instead of the welcoming party-of-one she'd been expecting. Luckily, she didn't have time to feel disappointed about the meeting being delayed; there was also a second message, from the local branch of the Watcher's Council. They'd apparently lost their Slayer the night before and were in full panic mode. It was just as well the newer G-man in her life was too busy with his job to meet up as planned, because she was, too.

There were a _lot_ of demons in Sin City, the most per capita in the United States outside of a Hellmouth, actually, though they tended to be the kind of pacifists who tried to make with the blendage. That meant that the rare trouble-makers were usually outsiders, the kind who usually flounced through in January or May back home. None of the usual low-grade, homegrown kind of mischief. That was generally good for business- except for the fact that it was impossible to tell when apocalypse season was flaring up until the city was already in the middle of it. Kelly and her backup team had managed to interrupt the whatever-it-was being called up this time and return it to sender, but the whirligig of magic had sucked her in, too, as it was fading.

"God, I hope she's still in one piece," Buffy muttered to herself as she climbed out of the cab in front of HQ. She was never going to get used to being Her Generalship, no matter how long her third life lasted. The costs- and the responsibilities- reminded her of that old myth about the guy rolling the bolder up the hill; just when you thought you could relax, you got knocked right back down to the bottom. But there was no one else she would trust with the role, who wanted it. Not yet, anyway.

The door flung open as Buffy approached it, and a red-headed blur darted down the steps, flinging her arms wide to embrace her. "Buffy! I'm so glad you're here! Well, I mean, the circumstances are on the downer side, but I haven't seen you in ages, and you're looking great! Less starving waif and more successful adult student."

Willow pulled back, smiling into the Slayer's face, frecklier than she'd ever been in Sunnydale and aura practically bright enough for Buffy to see it. Clearly, Rio and Kennedy were agreeing with the powerful witch; she'd lost the last lines of strain around her eyes, too.

"You're looking pretty good yourself," Buffy said, smiling back, savoring the warmth of the quick hug. "Remind me, after the spell thing? I'll spring for lattes and give vicarious college stories; I can probably spare a few hours to catch up before I have to get back to that other thing I'm in town for."

It was a pity they couldn't spend more time on the same continent; she felt practically Scoobyless most of the time in Cleveland, connected to her best friends only by far-flung cell phone calls and the occasional Council meeting. There were just too few Watchers left with any idea what they were doing- and who were even remotely trustworthy with the lives of young Slayers- for her experienced posse to concentrate themselves in one place. It wasn't a good idea for more than one of them to settle in the same town, anyway, not since the last time the demon world decided to try to finish off the Bringers' work. Too tempting- and not the kind of tempting that gave a girl the tinglies.

Willow raised her eyebrows as she turned to lead Buffy toward the house. "Oh? Then he's not waiting for you or anything?" A faint cloud of distress furrowed on her brow, disrupting her buoyant attitude. "Was he mad that you had to run over here? I mean, of course the retrieval spell will work best if I use you and the Scythe as a pattern to find her from, but we _could_ substitute one of the nearby minis if you really need to go. It's not every day you get to meet your, uh, paternal genetic contributor."

Buffy had forbidden her friend to use any variation of 'dad' to refer to Mr. Grissom until she'd actually met him; the term implied more of a connection than the current wobbly nervous curiosity she felt and a few streaks placed _just so_ on a DNA analysis. She was oh for two in the long-term supportive father figures stakes already, and would just as soon not volunteer herself to be let down by a third. Twice burnt, thrice shy, and not ashamed to admit it. And as long as she was still Schrödinger's Buffy, neither claimed nor unclaimed, she didn't want anyone else picking up on the secret through a careless remark.

"Actually, he wasn't there; he's busy, too. They called him in on his day off, so it must be something big," Buffy shrugged. "I'd be mad, except it's amazingly convenient timing- if it had to happen at all, at least we managed to coordinate our schedules." She snorted to herself. "Knock on wood, right?"

Willow stopped short as the sounds of another car pulling up to the curb, and turned around as a big black SUV shut off its engine. "Ah, convenient; yeah, that might be one word for it," she said, cautiously.

"What? Oh, no. No! Not _now_," Buffy objected to the universe in general. This was _Vegas_, surely her luck would be at least a _little_ less hateful than usual. "I mean, what are the odds? There's other people that work for the crime lab, right?"

"And how many of those people do you think were called in to work today, the same day one of our girls was reported missing?" Willow rolled her eyes as the SUV's passenger door popped open.

"None," she sighed. "Alright, then; what do you think the odds are that they already think the Council had something to do with it?" Not all Slayers' parents had reacted well to their daughters' new destinies- and that category unfortunately included Kelly's.

Willow winced. "About the same?"

It was him, all right. And Buffy recognized his companion as well: the thirty-something brunette she'd seen standing next to him, hand resting on his arm, on TV several months before. Jury was out, according to Wills, on whether there was anything actually going on there; if there was, they were keeping it pretty far under wraps. There was certainly no hint of distraction in their expressions as they headed for the house, all stern and cop-like and reminiscent of Buffy's earlier musings about duty.

Reminiscent of other things, too, she realized as she looked more closely at the male CSI. He was taller than her, greying hair curlier, and he had a longer chin, but she recognized those cheekbones and the shape of his unsmiling mouth from her own mirror, and there was something about his eyes; the intensity, not necessarily the shape or color, though those weren't far off, either. All in all, it was much more of a gut-punch to take in in person.

She was watching him closely enough that she caught the exact second when he recognized her back: the way his eyes widened slightly and he shifted a hand to touch the other CSI on _her_ arm. He didn't stop walking, though, or frown, or anything else she'd been half-expecting.

"Ms. Summers, I presume," he said calmly when they reached her, expression not giving anything away.

His coworker's attention snapped immediately to his face, then shifted to Buffy's with visible surprise. "_Buffy_ Summers?" she blurted.

"Guilty as charged." The recognition added a touch of whimsy to Buffy's uncertainly churning emotions as she formulated a reply. "Though when you said you'd have to postpone, I was thinking more lunchish and less bulletproof vest. I'm guessing you're here about Kelly Williams, too?"

That didn't seem to take him aback, either; though he'd probably recognized the company name attached to the property from whatever background check he'd done on her, and he was clearly in the work zone moodwise. "We're here on behalf of the Las Vegas crime lab," he replied unnecessarily, then nodded to the woman. "This is Sara Sidle. Can we ask how you know Ms. Williams?"

So much for first impressions. "You can ask, but I can't guarantee you'll believe it," Buffy said, wryly. Then she held out her hand to Ms. Sidle. "Call me Buffy; and this is my friend, Willow Rosenberg."

"Pleased to meet you," Ms. Sidle replied, though her eyebrows added a note of uncertainty.

Mr. Grissom took a moment longer to reply. "I think you'll find I can believe a lot of things, if the evidence bears it out," he said, carefully.

That would be a first, if he was telling the truth. Most of Buffy's current activities were disguised as 'volunteer anti-gang work' or 'mentoring at-risk youth', but enough of Sunnydale's records had survived to make most people jump to the worst conclusion whenever anything with a whiff of badness happened around her.

Although- a sudden thought struck her- he _had_ been a coroner in L.A. Had he seen something there? Maybe he really _was_ willing to look outside the box, if she could prove she wasn't lying? Maybe things _would_ work out better if they were honest with each other from the start.

Maybe. Hope sprang eternal, anyway.

"All right, then," she said gamely, gesturing them into the house. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

"So," Sara said, the moment she had Gil alone, hours after the unbelievable explanation- and impossible display of 'magic'- that restored the missing Ms. Williams to her family.

He looked back at her with a wry, weary smile. "So."

She shook her head. "I guess I should have known no child of yours would ever be ordinary."

He chuckled, acknowledging that with a nod; though she couldn't begin to guess what was really going on in his head. "Have you rethought whether you want to come to lunch with us?"

"Wanting back up?" she teased him, to cover her surprise.

"Always," he said, warmly, reaching out to take her hands.

"Well, then." She smiled back. The case _had_ given her an official excuse to talk with Ms. Summers. And frankly- she was too fascinated, now, to stay away. "Why not?"

Whatever else came of her acquaintance with Gil's unexpected daughter- the least she could say was that it would never be boring.

-x-


	6. The Rest Is Still Unwritten

**Title**: The Rest is Still Unwritten

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: PG/K+

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the world is not.

**Summary**: _Their second meeting started out a little on the distant side._ 1200 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-series for Buffy; vaguely season six-ish for CSI.

**Notes**: Titled from the Natasha Bedingfield song. I may yet be inspired to write more vignettes in this universe... but at the same time, this feels like a fit conclusion to the arc. So.

* * *

Their second meeting started out a little on the distant side. They'd planned a stroll through an art exhibit, followed by lunch at a restaurant, where Ms. Sidle was going to join them- probably on a girlfriend basis; that theory was looking stronger all the time. Public spaces, carefully chosen for neutral appeal; he obviously remembered her mother's major, and the subject of the exhibit jived with what her mom had told her about him. But Buffy had an unexpectedly difficult time finding things to say to him.

Actually meeting her bio-dad was supposed to have been a positive thing, but it was having the opposite effect on her nerves. Especially after the previous day's unexpected revelations about her Slayerhood. She'd been happier with the idea of presenting herself as a slightly ditzy college student; you couldn't disappoint someone who had good reason not to expect anything, after all.

Instead, things had fallen into that uncertain, stomach churny zone where her feelings for both her other father figures had drifted since her eighteenth birthday. Though interestingly enough, aside from that, the brown hair and the fact that they'd all slept with her mom seemed to be the only things the three men had in common. If Hank Summers belonged to the Cordelia Chase demographic, and Giles was kind of an older, wiser Willow, then Gil Grissom seemed to be the Oz of bugs and crime.

Buffy ran with that comparison for a moment as the impression settled: the way he seemed so solid and self-contained, the way he'd taken her crazy in stride when they ran into each other looking for a lost baby Slayer, and how he carefully measured his words even when talking about things that meant a lot to him. Very present in the moment- or focused might be a better word. She didn't know him well enough yet to tell how deep his emotions might run, but he seemed as receptive as he was reserved, taking her in just as she was instead of measuring her against some ideal daughter metric.

She could deal with that in an older guy-shaped friend, she decided. If she thought of him as Crime Lab Edition Oz rather than her mother's Parker or Riley, a lot of the subconscious squidginess faded.

"Look," she said, as they came to the end of a row of sketches featuring creepy crawlies with too many legs and eyes for her comfort. "I won't lie, I was a daddy's girl when I was little. But that was several years ago- before Hank got a shiny new girlfriend and dropped Dawn and I like yesterday's news. I don't need a new father. And I'd guess you don't really know what to do with a daughter, either, especially not a Slayer who comes with a dependent of her own. But- we're connected, whether we're really prepared for that or not. And you seem like a nice guy. I'd think I'd like to get to know you better, at least as a friend who happened to also know my mom."

Gil studied her expression, mouth curving in slight smile. "You're right; parenthood isn't something I'd been expecting to experience. Especially with your- challenges. But you seem like a perceptive, fascinating young woman- someone it would be a pleasure to get to know."

"Uh, good. Great!" Buffy replied, smiling awkwardly back at him. "This is all just so..." she added apologetically, waving a hand.

"I know," he agreed, then cleared his throat gently. "So. You're studying psychology in Cleveland...?"

She took a relieved breath and dove back into the conversation.

* * *

At second glance, Buffy Summers seemed exactly as blonde as advertised, both in appearance and personality; it was somewhat of a jarring shift from her command performance during the rescue of Kelly Williams. She reminded Gil a great deal of her mother, in fact, both in her good points and those less attractive, but as she rambled her way through a very pop-culture infused conversation it became clear that her 'Slayer' side was not a separately constructed mask. Just as her hair took its hue from a bottle, there was a firm secondary substrate beneath the façade of the California cheerleader.

Prior to her arrival in Vegas, he'd been concerned that they would have nothing in common. He'd taken comfort in Sara's reassurance that he never had to see his newly discovered daughter again if their meeting didn't go well; they came from different backgrounds, genetic contribution notwithstanding. But she listened with complete understanding when he talked about the reasons he had chosen his career, and when they made their way to the art exhibit, she seemed at least mildly interested in his commentary, though she did wrinkle her nose at some of the insects depicted. She even offered some observations of her own when they reached a sketch of a praying mantis mid-meal.

There were shadows in her green eyes, and a decisiveness to her movements that spoke of weighty experience and considerable training. More than a young woman in her twenties should have; he shuddered to think how early she must have begun her supernatural vigilantism. And yet, she seemed eager to present her best face; there was no hint of duplicity in her. Even if he hadn't known who she was when he ran across her investigating Ms. Williams, Gil would have been inclined to trust her word when she gave it- though perhaps slightly warier of her motives.

He hadn't felt any instantaneous connection, and he wasn't sure whether or not to be disappointed in that. Given that they pursued very different lives in different states, it seemed unlikely that they'd ever spend enough time together to make its lack at all meaningful. But he did find that he wouldn't be averse to getting to know her better. That was more than he'd expected.

He was unsurprised when she broke pattern to address him seriously along much the same lines. He might have no claim to pride- but he was pleased at her perceptiveness, all the same.

"I have to warn you, my mother _will_ want to meet you," he added, some time later.

Buffy's eyes widened at that- but not in a displeased way; she seemed almost shocked. "I... have a grandmother?" she said. "That didn't. I mean; of _course_. I haven't heard from Dad's, I mean Hank's parents in ages, and Mom's family is... gone. "

This was something he _could_ share with her, even if their relationship was destined to remain nonstandard. "Yes; and she'll be very pleased to claim a grandchild at last. Though- are you familiar with sign language?" His mother could lip read if necessary, but was more comfortable with ASL.

Buffy bit her lip and shook her head. "No; but I can register for a class in it, next semester. And, um. If you don't mind. I can bring Dawn with me, next time I visit? She's already fluent."

She still seemed a little anxious, but also hopeful; and Gil found himself hopeful as well, at that evidence of acceptance and planning for continued contact.

"Of course," he said. One step at a time; they could make this work.

-x-


End file.
